


The Pleasure Yacht

by MiriamKenneath



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space Opera, Identity Porn, Other, Robot/Human Relationships, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:33:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23900881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiriamKenneath/pseuds/MiriamKenneath
Summary: Psyche awakened as she had every morning for the past two lunar cycles, when the curtains surrounding her bed opened and the lights, warm and mellow as a summer sunrise, were switched on. If the shipboard days were not programmed to mimic Earth-standard orbits, she would not know how much time had passed since her arrival.As always, the space on the bed beside her was empty.
Relationships: Eros/Psyche (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24
Collections: Wayback Exchange 2020





	The Pleasure Yacht

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Missy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/gifts).



Psyche awakened as she had every morning for the past two lunar cycles, when the curtains surrounding her bed opened and the lights, warm and mellow as an summer sunrise, were switched on. If the shipboard days were not programmed to mimic Earth-standard orbits, she would not know how much time had passed since her arrival.

As always, the vastness of space on the bed beside her was empty.

She rose and stretched. Threw on a dressing gown. She would bathe before breakfast, she decided.

The waters of the swimming pool-sized sauna steamed and bubbled, but, as always, there were no other bathers. No one to see her. Psyche disrobed, tossed the dressing down aside without a care and slid naked into the sauna’s scented water. The warmth sank into her muscles and bones. She dipped her head below the water, her long hair swirling about her face, enveloped in all-encompassing _heat_.

After she was finished bathing, she dried herself off and making her way to the dining room. When she arrived, the buffet was already laid out, a feast-day’s worth of fruits and pastries, smoked meats and soured cream. She could eat whatever – and as much as – she wanted, and the food would be endlessly replenished by silent service bots. She took her plate to a seat at the best table in the house, the one with the commanding orbital views of the planet Venus. There were no other diners to challenge her for it.

As she finished her coffee, a polite chime sounded from invisible loudspeakers. It was the shipboard A.I. ‘Do you have an itinerary today, Mistress?’ asked the A.I. in its polite, attractively masculine voice.

‘Oh. Hm. I haven’t decided yet.’ She paused to think. Had she tried everything there was to be tried? Or were there parts of the cruise ship she hadn’t seen? She thought she’d already visited everywhere at least once. Still. It would not do to allow herself to succumb to boredom. ‘Perhaps I’ll visit the shops on the starboard promenade after breakfast and the botanical garden in the afternoon.’

‘Very good, Mistress. I will have a light lunch sent to you in the garden at 1300 hours.’

‘Thank you, Q-PD,’ said Psyche.

She was beautiful. Everybody said so. Yet no one seemed to want her. They were content, it seemed, to admire her from afar – and they certainly would not dare to ask for her hand in marriage!

Her parents were confused. Disappointed. At first, they blamed Psyche. But really, _her_ behaviour was above reproach. There had to be another explanation. Dark questions nibbled at their them: Had the family been secretly blacklisted from polite society? Were potential suitors being warned away, threatened?

So, they called in investigators from a high-priced consultancy firm to look into the situation for them. The findings, when delivered, were most disturbing: Psyche’s parents had incurred the wrath of one of the Olympian Twelve. (‘Which of The Twelve?’ asked her parents. ‘We could not ascertain this information,’ was the investigators’ reply.) If they didn’t give Psyche away now to appease The Twelve, they were told, Psyche was doomed to live out her days unmarried. She would die a spinster. And neither of her married sisters’ children, moreover, could be expected to survive to adulthood. The family line would be extinguished in a single generation.

Her parents, appalled and desperate to protect their bloodline, hastened to do as they were bid. They took her to the nearest spaceport and left her there to be collected by an emissary of The Twelve.

Honestly, Psyche hadn’t known what to expect. She certainly hadn’t expected to be picked up by a gleaming windrush shuttle on autopilot and carried off into space to dock with a pleasure yacht.

An _empty_ pleasure yacht. These ships were built to transport and serve ten-thousand at a time on luxurious, multi-cycle space cruises…yet Psyche was, as best as she could tell, this yacht’s sole passenger, and for all intents and purposes, she spent her days onboard alone.

Her nights, however, were a rather different story.

She passed the morning in the empty shops, browsing merchandise she had neither the money nor the inclination to purchase. She passed the afternoon in the gardens, smelling the flowers and running her fingers through the grass. As promised, her lunch was delivered to her at 1300 hours, and after eating, she napped in the artificial UV light. She spent the early evening hours at the cold pool, practicing her dives and playing on the water slides. And once she’d worked up an appetite, she returned once more to the dining hall, where a lavish supper awaited her. She ate quickly, barely tasting the fine food, not bothering to savour the view. She was in too much of a hurry to turn in for the night.

The lights dimmed as she slipped naked into her bed. Psyche closed her eyes, heart pounding. She was excited; she didn’t want to have to wait any longer. He’ll come, she told herself. She knew he would. He always did.

Her lover came as she had anticipated, a languorous weight upon her, a hundred hands, stroking, caressing. He touched her everywhere, the corners of her lips, the peaked mounds of her breasts, the sensitive insides of her thighs. It wasn’t human; it couldn’t possibly be human. Psyche moaned and arched her back. ‘Inside me,’ she whispered, ‘I want you inside me.’

Her wrists and ankles were pinned, her legs outspread, assuring she would be open to him. Something pushed inside, long and thick – so, so thick! such a delicious stretch! – and bottomed out, hitting her cervix. Psyche moaned. Then it began to thrust, the shaft scraping the tip of her clitoris with each in and out, in and out movement.

Psyche came with a shout. When she was finished, her lover withdrew from inside her, but she knew it stayed with her.

‘Q-PD!’ she called.

A polite chime from invisible loudspeakers acknowledged her.

‘Please turn on the lights in my bedchamber,’ she said.

A second polite chime as the A.I. switched the lights on. Curious, she turned to look at the vastness of space beside her in the bed. As always, Psyche saw that there was no one there.


End file.
